Well, hello there. I see you’re back. Rolled in under the stealth of night.
Couldn’t stay away for long, could you? Wasn’t it just a couple of days ago that you took off in a big huff, all puffed and billowing every which way as you threatened to leave us in a stupefying hot vacuum?
What was it you just said? Couldn’t hear because of the crows and the mutt whimpering down the street…
You missed the fun of rolling across the ridge. The undulation in the currents of wind. The gentle and slow rise and fall, until the thrill of acceleration over US 101 in a final rush to reach Sausalito and the bay. I get it now. A long time ago I used to ski, which was a bit like flying while still having your feet on the ground. But you have no feet, not that this can stop you from going anywhere you feel that particular push.
So, here you are, back at the grind. Because it doesn’t look like you are having much fun this morning. You look intent on some task there, trying to reshape the peaks. Would it hurt your feelings if I told you that you’re no Michelangelo?
What now? Oh, OK. I hear you…. I am no playwright.